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smokingbootOK, to take my mind off the daunting stupidity of human beings, I am forced to focus on the strange meandering of the morlocks, aka our tribe of gerbils.
There are three, two boys, one girl. Due to their propensity for going down holes, we were tempted to call them Saddam, Bush and Bin Laden, but as my love pointed out, it won't work unless we get a cat called NATO.
So being pc types who would never dream of offending anybody, we decided to call the silver male who keeps trying to climb upwards Edmund (after Sir Hilary) the brown alpha male, Fred (after a much loved gerbil of Larian's youth) and the silver female who keeps building a massive underground complex, Brunel.
Of the three, Brunel has always been the most diffident. Fred fears nothing in the face of dried banana, and Edmund is a spaced out rodent hippy whose only desire is to travel beyond the mini-pyramid currently dominating the centre of the gerbilarium. Brunel just avoids everything except her old maps of the London Underground and Hydraulics System.
Suddenly things have changed.
The gerbilarium is not small. It is filled with peat and straw to tunnel through, plus old kitchen/toilet roll cardboard which they have deftly turned into engineering art, and fresh twigs for them to chew on and play with.
Brunel has been happy until tonight, when she discarded luscious snackies and chewy twigs, and even nice clean water for the elastic band which ties the water bottle to a chunky vertical stick.
Man, she loves that elastic band. She hangs off it by her teeth and pushes off with her feet, chewing at the band voraciously. Of course, in order to chew, she has to momentarily release her jaws and fall to earth, and she just won't have it. She swings like a loony from the band and chomps with a manic, almost religious, fervour. The boys just stare at her, and so do I, not least because this lacky band is strong and opinionated, a fine upstanding band of much thickness, kind of like Brunel herself.
Maybe she's intoxicated by some weird chemical in the elastic, in which case, how come the others are immune? Maybe she's pregnant and her teeny rodent brain has turned with the strain of impending motherhood. It may be that in an attempt to entertain us/break the sound barrier she is going to catapult herself across the cage and meet Nikki Lauder on the other side. OR. She is a freak.
I know what I believe.
Arise Lady Freakella of Royton. I dub thee knight and adventuress, defender of the royal gerbilarium of Perth Street. For feck's sake grab yourself a sunflower seed and calm down.
Sometimes I suspect there aren't enough drugs in this household. For any of us.
There are three, two boys, one girl. Due to their propensity for going down holes, we were tempted to call them Saddam, Bush and Bin Laden, but as my love pointed out, it won't work unless we get a cat called NATO.
So being pc types who would never dream of offending anybody, we decided to call the silver male who keeps trying to climb upwards Edmund (after Sir Hilary) the brown alpha male, Fred (after a much loved gerbil of Larian's youth) and the silver female who keeps building a massive underground complex, Brunel.
Of the three, Brunel has always been the most diffident. Fred fears nothing in the face of dried banana, and Edmund is a spaced out rodent hippy whose only desire is to travel beyond the mini-pyramid currently dominating the centre of the gerbilarium. Brunel just avoids everything except her old maps of the London Underground and Hydraulics System.
Suddenly things have changed.
The gerbilarium is not small. It is filled with peat and straw to tunnel through, plus old kitchen/toilet roll cardboard which they have deftly turned into engineering art, and fresh twigs for them to chew on and play with.
Brunel has been happy until tonight, when she discarded luscious snackies and chewy twigs, and even nice clean water for the elastic band which ties the water bottle to a chunky vertical stick.
Man, she loves that elastic band. She hangs off it by her teeth and pushes off with her feet, chewing at the band voraciously. Of course, in order to chew, she has to momentarily release her jaws and fall to earth, and she just won't have it. She swings like a loony from the band and chomps with a manic, almost religious, fervour. The boys just stare at her, and so do I, not least because this lacky band is strong and opinionated, a fine upstanding band of much thickness, kind of like Brunel herself.
Maybe she's intoxicated by some weird chemical in the elastic, in which case, how come the others are immune? Maybe she's pregnant and her teeny rodent brain has turned with the strain of impending motherhood. It may be that in an attempt to entertain us/break the sound barrier she is going to catapult herself across the cage and meet Nikki Lauder on the other side. OR. She is a freak.
I know what I believe.
Arise Lady Freakella of Royton. I dub thee knight and adventuress, defender of the royal gerbilarium of Perth Street. For feck's sake grab yourself a sunflower seed and calm down.
Sometimes I suspect there aren't enough drugs in this household. For any of us.
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